Novels by AUTHOR_NEON

LIAM MARTIN'S POVI could barely focus. The world seemed to tilt sideways, the chatter and clinking glasses downstairs turning into an unintelligible hum. My vision swam in a haze of disbelief, confusion, and adrenaline. My knees felt weak—I had to lean into Grayson just to stay upright.“You’re going to be fine,” he murmured, his hands bracing me, steady as bedrock. I’d leaned against him without thinking, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something warmer, more intimate, something only he carried. My pulse was a chaotic drum in my ears.“What… what’s happening?” My voice sounded thin, almost foreign. I felt my chest tighten painfully.“Shh,” he said softly, tilting my chin up. His thumb brushed over my jaw with that careful patience that made me want to melt into him entirely. “Just listen.”I nodded dumbly. Words wouldn’t form. My thoughts kept colliding: The party… the people… why is he like this?“I love you,” he said suddenly, almost breaking the fragile quiet

GRAYSON PITTMAN’S POVThe office had that same sterile chill it always did—the hum of the central air, the quiet buzz of the espresso machine, and the faint static of irritation coming from Caisen every time I so much as breathed in his direction. He sat across from me with his usual disdain, the type that made you wonder if he was born glaring.He had his feet on my coffee table and his hand halfway inside Lucian's assistant’s shirt. Typical.Caisen wasn’t mine to control, though heaven knew I’d tried once. I let him and his theatrics exist like a necessary chaos in an otherwise precise world.He was running his thumb along the waistband of Conrad’s jeans, smirking like a cat with feathers in its mouth. I didn’t bother hiding my sigh. “You two do remember this is an office, not an episode of something banned on network television?”Caisen gave me a look sharp enough to decapitate. “You called us here, Pittman. Don’t complain about what you invite.”I had, indeed. And now I almost reg

LIAM MARTIN’S POVThe kiss left a taste of espresso and regret on my tongue. I could still feel the press of his hands—steady, commanding, devastatingly gentle—lingering on my skin long after he pulled away. Grayson Pittman didn’t just touch; he claimed. Every brush of his fingers felt like a vow I wasn’t foolish enough to believe anymore.He stood there for a second, his expression unreadable, before muttering something about dinner. I nodded, mutely. He left the conservatory first, as if he hadn’t just rearranged the air I breathed. Typical.I followed minutes later, my lips swollen, my heart swollen stupidly more. The dining room was dimly lit, the kind of aesthetic Grayson liked—muted elegance, crystal glasses that probably cost more than my entire college degree. I sat opposite him, quietly eating the risotto Ratna had left warming on the side. He didn’t speak. Neither did I. Our silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was a ghost of something unfinished, waiting for one of us to flinch

GRAYSON PITTMAN'S POVThe door to the conservatory, which I had long since converted into Liam’s private studio, was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, the scent of cold americano and paper filling the air, a much-preferred aroma to the sterile smell of my office. He was hunched over a massive drafting table, his back curved like a parenthesis, illuminated by the focused arc of an architectural lamp. Ratna’s report was accurate: he hadn’t moved.He was sitting on a modernist chair—all sleek lines and hard plastic—and the sight of his strained posture sent a sharp, involuntary tremor of irritation through me. Every ache in his body, especially the lower back pain that must be radiating down his spine, was my fault. I owned that debt, and seeing him suffer needlessly, even physically, was unacceptable.“You’re going to ruin your spine,” I stated, my voice cutting through the silent focus of the room. I walked over, not waiting for a response, and snagged one of the overstuffed velvet p

GRAYSON PITTMAN'S POVThe granite slab of my conference table felt cold and solid beneath my palms, a necessary anchor in a world that had felt suspiciously fluid since dawn. I ran the final numbers on the acquisition details, my voice clipped and professional as I spoke to my assistant, Mark, standing across the vast, windowed room.“The deal closes by 16:00 today. If Sebastian’s team finds any unexpected liabilities in the final audit, move the funds back to the holding account immediately. I want no loose ends.” I paused, reviewing the timeline I’d put in place. “Clear my calendar starting at 17:00. Hold all non-urgent calls until tomorrow.”Mark nodded, already pivoting to execute the orders, but I stopped him. I needed a distraction, something mundane, before the memory of the previous night could breach the professional barricade I’d constructed.“Call Ratna. Ask her where Mr. Martin is.”Mark didn't blink at the intrusion of a domestic query into a billion-dollar negotiation; he

LIAM MARTIN'S POVThe first thing I registered was the dull throb behind my eyes, a familiar, unwelcome guest after a night of too much drinking. The second was the ache in my lower back, a deep, radiating soreness that had nothing to do with sleeping wrong. I squinted against the morning light that sliced through the balcony doors, a bright, unforgiving square on the polished wood floor. I was in my own room, the same stark white walls and minimalist furniture Grayson had set up for me. But my body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.Fragments of last night came back in a slow, brutal trickle. The bar, the cold air on the balcony, the taste of Grayson’s absurdly expensive whiskey. My stupid, drunken confession about feeling like a charity case. And then, his voice, low and dangerous, cutting through the haze: Why don't you pay with your body?A wave of nausea hit me, a cold, sickening lurch that had nothing to do with the alcohol. I had done it again. Just like years ag